A jaded grim reaper and a woman who wants another chance at life give ‘ Lucy McKenzie’s life has always been a disaster. So it should come as no surprise when one day she’s hit by an inconveniently-timed bus--and dies. Unfortunately for the handsome grim reaper who shows up to take her to the afterlife, Lucy is not about to go quietly. Daniel is tired of his job collecting souls. While working for the Agency beats the heck out of going to Hell, he’s been doing this for literal ages. The drudgery has him yearning for more. Touched by Lucy’s plea for more time on earth, he convinces the Agency to make a deal: Lucy can have six more weeks of life if Daniel can observe her and report back on humanity. But as Lucy and Daniel navigate the chaos of life and afterlife together, they discover that a second chance at living might be their real chance at love.

Autorentext

By day, Jenna Levine works to increase access to affordable housing in the American South. By night, she's the USA Today bestselling author of humorous paranormal romances where the characters always find love, no matter who (or what) they are. When Jenna isn't writing, she can be found starting knitting projects she probably won't finish, imagining she is hiking somewhere beautiful, or spending time with her family and small army of cats.

Leseprobe
Chapter One

Lucy

Of all the embarrassing things I've done in my life, ducking behind a stranger at a workplace retirement party so my boss doesn't see me has to be in the top ten.

"Don't move," I instruct, crouching down low enough in my seat that the man's conveniently broad shoulders block me from view.

He freezes. "What are you doing?" His voice is very deep and rough around the edges, like he hasn't used it in a while. It's a sexy voice, a fact I'd maybe dwell on if we weren't at a work event and the night hadn't already gone to shit.

"Let's just say that if I believed in Hell," I explain from behind this thankfully accommodating stranger, "I would currently be in its seventh circle."

The guy makes a strangled sound but says nothing.

My boss, Professor Elizabeth Skellar, stands less than five feet away as she scans the hotel ballroom. From the determined set of her jaw, I know she's looking for whoever forgot to bring the plaque honoring Professor Shiran's fifty years of service to Tennessee College. The same plaque she was supposed to present to him five minutes ago in front of this crowd of stodgy professors, Professor Shiran's family, and a handful of university staff like me who couldn't get out of being here.

But Skellar couldn't present anything when Professor Shiran took the stage, because there wasn't anything to present. Because I forgot the plaque at the office.

I knew I was supposed to bring it. I wrote it down in my Notes app and everything. Sometimes, though, even writing things down isn't enough to keep me from screwing up. I'm probably the worst admin Skellar has ever had-but forgetting the plaque for tonight's guest of honor is a new low, even for me.

As I continue hiding in plain sight, Professor Skellar walks past us without looking in our direction. Only when she gets a drink from the bar and returns to her seat on the other side of the room do I let out a sigh of relief and get my first good look at the person I've been using as a shield.

I nearly choke on my tongue.

I don't know why this guy just randomly showed up at a table reserved for university staff when everyone else abandoned it an hour ago. He's the most handsome man I've ever seen. No-handsome doesn't do him justice. This guy is hot. So hot it almost hurts to look at him. Dark, artfully messy hair that all but demands to have fingers running through it. Ice-blue eyes. I already noticed the lifesaving broad shoulders of course, but I didn't notice the way his torso tapers down to a narrow waist. Or this man's very long legs.

Or the way his cheekbones are so sharp they could cut glass.

His charcoal-gray suit looks like it cost more money than I make in a month as an administrative assistant and way more than an econ professor at Tennessee College would spend on clothes. He can't be staff, or I'd recognize him. He's also not family of the retiring professor, sitting way back here; Shiran's family is all sitting together at the front table.

At least I look good tonight, thanks to my sister, Jess, who took me under her wing the way she always does. My makeup and shoulder-length light brown hair are on point. And the dress she lent me-a gorgeous black sheath dress with cap sleeves that fits me like it's mine-gives me a confidence I rarely feel.

"Hey," I say, tapping into that false confidence. Trying for sultry but probably failing. It's me we're talking about. The man is glowering down at a notecard, doing that hot-guy clenching thing with his jaw that hot guys always seem to do in romance novels. "What's your name?"

That pair of ice-blue eyes snaps to mine. They widen a little, as though the question startles him. "My name?"

I nod at our otherwise vacant table. "A few minutes ago I was the only one here. Now you're here, too. An introduction seems appropriate." And I'd like to know who I'm about to hit on. "I'm Lucy McKenzie. And you are?"

"I know who you are."

"Oh," I say, surprised. "Are you in the Econ Department, too?" He looks like he's in his early thirties. Maybe he's a new faculty hire after all.

"No." His eyes go distant, as if he's trying to answer a difficult question. "As for my name, it's . . . Daniel?" His sentence turns up at the end, like he's not sure about it.

"Are you asking me if your name is Daniel or telling me?"

A beat passes. "Telling you?" He doesn't seem too certain of that, either. Being hot like burning clearly hasn't made him immune to being strange.

"Daniel's a nice name," I tell him. His shoulders relax a little, as though my liking his name is a relief. "What brings you to my table at the very back of this lovely ballroom?"

He stares at me like a deer caught in headlights.

"This table is only for the unlucky hourly employees who have to be here," I clarify. I don't tell him that my coworkers-including Eleanor, my work bestie-found more interesting places to be once the open bar started. It's probably obvious; we're the only two people here now. "Do you work here?"

"No."

For a second, I wonder if he's a party crasher. But that's ridiculous. Who would be lame enough to crash this party? Then again, I don't remember Daniel from the formal retirement ceremony this afternoon. If I so much as caught a glimpse of this man out of my peripheral vision, I'd remember him.

I try again. "How do you know Professor Shiran?"

He shifts awkwardly in his seat. He clearly doesn't want to be having this conversation. "I don't." His gaze sharpens on me with an intensity that could cut through stone. "There is someone here I have business with."

"Business?"

He nods slowly, ice-blue eyes still locked on mine, but doesn't clarify. Before I can ask what kind of business brings him to a retirement party for someone he doesn't know in a department where he doesn't work, servers in black-and-white uniforms begin moving around the room, placing slices of cake at each seat.

My mouth waters.

One of the only perks of being on the organizing committee for this event was helping with the menu planning and dessert tastings. Professor Shiran is one of our college's most beloved scholars, and the administration made it clear that nothing was too good for his retirement party. I've been looking forward to this dessert for weeks. If tonight's version is even half as good as the one from a few weeks ago, I'm about to bite into a piece of lemon custard cake that tastes like heaven.

Daniel eyes his slice of cake dubiously. When a server sets a m…